


Bloodlines

by Nastrandir



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drama, F/M, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 02:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5112869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nastrandir/pseuds/Nastrandir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Warden prison, and after Kirkwall, they are still together. At Skyhold, Hawke discovers that the past has claws that will entangle them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloodlines

**Author's Note:**

> A follow-up to Pathways, with a similar style and some of the same characters. It can be read as an self-contained oneshot though.

“You know,” Hawke said, and dragged clumped snow out of her hair. “When you said this place was hard to get to, I thought you were exaggerating.”

“I never exaggerate, you know that,” Varric replied mildly.

Hawke levered herself out of the saddle, her legs and shoulders stiff, her fingers close to cramping inside her gloves. Her boots hit the ground and she swayed, leaning against the horse until he whickered admonishingly at her. On the other side of the horse, her mabari huffed, her thick brown coat patched white with snow across the broad arch of her shoulders.

“Of course you don’t,” Hawke muttered.

Beside her, Fenris swung out of his saddle with enviable elegance. He tipped his head up, his breath pluming as he looked at the towering grey spires overhead. Torches lined the walls, the night sky above roiling with cloud and icy. Snow clung to the crenulations and dusted the sloping roofs.

“What is this place?” Fenris asked.

“We’re not really sure,” Varric answered. “It’s old.”

“And freezing,” Hawke muttered sourly.

“We’re in the Frostbacks, Hawke. Clue’s in the name.”

She huddled deeper into her cape and glared. “I missed you too, Varric.”

He grinned, and it eased the tired lines in his face. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”

With numb hands around the reins, she led the horse through the gatehouse, the heavy press of his hooves as exhausted as her own steps. She followed Varric across the open expanse of a training circle, crisp and cold, and under stone archways to a wider courtyard. The fortress – _Skyhold_ , Varric had called it in his letters – was vast, all sprawling stone walkways and a warren of towers rising black and sharp against the clouds.

At the stables, Varric gestured for them to wait while he woke one of the stableboys. After stroking the horse’s long nose in farewell, Hawke found herself traipsing through high doors and up too many steps. It was, she conceded silently, at least slightly warmer, the bitter lash of the wind kept at bay.

In Varric’s rooms, he ordered them both to sit near the fire and start thawing themselves out before he strode away, muttering something about food. Hawke stood, almost startled, while she took in the details of the room. Tapestries blanketed the walls, green and brown and napped with gold. The table was stacked high with parchment and inkwells and a perilously leaning stack of books. Oil lamps fluttered, marigold light limning the edges of the table and the high casement.

Gracelessly, Hawke sank onto the floor, wincing when the heat of the flames hit her face. Fenris did the same, curling himself beside her and wrestling his gloves off. When he turned his attention to hers, sliding them off and clasping her hands between his, she smiled. After nosing at Fenris’ shoulder, the mabari blinked dark eyes and settled herself close to the hearth, paws crossed.

“Are you alright?” Hawke asked.

“Aside from the worrying fact that I cannot quite feel my feet, yes.” With slow, almost awkward motions, Fenris rubbed at her hands, his skin as chill as hers.

“If this deal doesn’t come with at least a decent bath, I’ve half a mind to leave right away.”

Fenris smiled crookedly. “Do negotiations and exchanges of information usually include such things?”

“I have no idea.” She reached up and loosened the clasp of his cape, pushing the heavy, dripping fabric over his shoulders and onto the floor. Gently, she combed her hand through his hair, thick white strands clogged with ice. Almost absently, she said, “Think this is going to work?”

“No matter how many times you ask that, I have still, unfortunately, not developed foresight.”

“Funny.” She smoothed his hair down, silken and still damp. She leaned against him, her forehead brushing his until she could feel the warm, familiar rhythm of him breathing against her mouth.

The door opened and Varric said, “You know, that’s not something I need to see.”

Hawke grinned and straightened up. “Sorry.”

“You’re never sorry, Hawke.”

He had a tray balanced between his hands, with a plate and an ale jug and precariously arranged tankards. He kicked the door shut behind him and crossed the floor.

Hawke shucked her cape off, wincing when something in her shoulder twinged. “Thanks, Varric.”

“Least I can do before I throw you to the wolves,” he said genially.

“That’s reassuring.” She eyed the tray, her gaze skipping over bread and apples and a square of hard cheese. “How is this going to work?”

“Honestly?” Varric sighed. “I don’t really know. I’m hoping they’ll listen. I’ll let the Seeker know in the morning that you’re here, and hope she doesn’t want to have me executed for sneaking you in.”

Hawke lifted one of the tankards, folding her fingers carefully around the handle. “And getting even less reassuring.”

Varric laughed. “We’ll be fine once we start talking. The Inquisitor – Trevelyan – he’s fairly level-headed when he wants to be.”

“Lord Trevelyan, you said?”

“That’s him. He’s from Ostwick.”

She nodded. She drank, the ale slipping across her tongue, dark and thick. She made herself eat, breaking off a chunk of the bread. She tore it in half and passed the other piece to Fenris. Slowly, the heat seeped into her, feet to fingertips, and she managed to summon up the desire to kick her boots off.

“Varric?” She hesitated, the tiredness clawing at her again, incessant and surging under her skin. “I have to ask. You’re certain. It was Corypheus.”

“Unless there’s two of them that tall and that damn terrifying, then yes. And if there’s two of them, we’re in deeper shit than I first thought.” Varric scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “It was him. I saw him and I heard him. I also ran away from him.”

“Yes. Sorry. I didn’t – of course I believed you. Since I got your first letter, I just didn’t,” she said, and shrugged. “Want you to be right.”

“You’re not the only one,” Varric muttered.

“There has to be some way,” Hawke said. “Something we can do. Some cliff somewhere we can kick him off face first.”

“Sound tactical approach as always, Hawke.”

“Very funny.”

“For tonight you’ll be residing in my guest chambers,” Varric said, sardonic. He gestured to the door on the far side of the room. “It’ll keep the gossip down until maybe dawn.”

“Charming.”

Eventually she cleared most of the plate, Fenris helping and finishing the bread.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Fenris said, his voice low and slightly teasing. “To argue about whatever it is you need to argue about. I’ll even pretend I probably won’t be able to hear you.”

She caught his wrist, lifting the back of his hand to her lips. “Thank you.” She waited until the far door was closed again before saying, “Go on, then.”

“Go on and what?” Varric asked.

“Just say it, Varric.”

“Wasn’t he meant to be staying somewhere safe? You know, nowhere near Corypheus? Away from the hordes of demons that keep dropping out of the sky?”

Hawke shrugged. “He took one look at your letter, another look at me and it suddenly didn’t seem worth the argument.”

“Should never have taught the damn elf to read.”

“Be nice. And you really think he’d’ve stayed anywhere, waiting? He doesn’t do patience very well when he’s decided he doesn’t want to, remember?”

Varric shook his head. “You know better than to evade around me.”

“What did you want me to do?” She heard her own voice pitch higher. “We all split up. We had to, I know that. I – and I know it would’ve been safer to come here alone. It would have been safer to send him off somewhere. But you know what? I couldn’t and I don’t care that I couldn’t.”

“Hawke,” he said, softer.

“No, you have to hear this. I’m here for you, and I’ll help you. I’d do anything for you, you know that.” She scowled. “Well, maybe not anything. You know what I mean.”

“And here I was getting ready to say how flattered I am but that you just don’t quite make my head spin _that_ way, Hawke.”

“Bastard,” she muttered genially. She grabbed at the tankard again. “You know what they’re saying out there, Varric? That it’s the end of everything. If that’s true, and shit, I don’t know if it is, I’m not staying away from him. Not now. Not after everything.”

Varric nodded slowly. “I hear you.”

“And shit, Varric. What you said about what happened at Haven? If Corypheus has that much support, if he’s – and you know you can’t go damn well anywhere without running into demons and the Maker knows what else,” she said, her voice wavering.

“I hear you,” Varric said again, very gently. “And I understand. Now go and get some sleep.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Now, Hawke.”

She grinned before swaying her way upright. She was halfway to the door when he said, “Hey, Hawke?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

She nodded and eased the door open.

Firelight met her, and Fenris, buried neck-deep in blankets, the white mop of his hair messy against the pillow. She stripped off her breeches and tunic and the patched shirt beneath. As carefully, she inched the blankets up and slithered in beside him, her questing hands finding skin and the steady thump of his heartbeat. He mumbled something and rolled over, hauling her against the bare warmth of his chest. She settled herself under his chin, aware of the rough brush of the lyrium marks and the way he burrowed his face against her hair.

“Mmm,” Fenris murmured. “Did you say something?”

“No. Go back to sleep.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she said, and it was mostly true.

She felt it as his breathing eased again, soft and unhurried. She kissed his shoulder, the skin there scarred and warm and tasting familiar. She clung to him, the tension still in her limbs, and it was many hours before sleep finally claimed her.

***

The morning brought the grey light of dawn and squalls of snow gusting against the casement. Already dressed, Hawke buckled her sword around her waist and waited. Near the fireplace, Fenris paced, the coiled apprehension in him matching her own. The door opened, and when Varric stepped through, Hawke forced a smile and said, “You’re still standing, at least.”

“Barely,” he retorted. “Of all the things I thought I’d have to do for you, Hawke, taking a swing from a Seeker wasn’t one of them.”

Hawke winced. “They’re not happy.”

“Cassandra’s not happy.” Varric smiled, the motion of it bleak. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”

She followed him through narrow corridors that she guessed were used by the servants, close to deserted this early. Fenris padded beside her, his footfalls measured and almost soundless. The last stretch of the corridor rose up and Varric motioned her on after him, through a last set of doors and into a small chamber. The gloom here was chased away by the fluttering lamplight, the air unused somehow, stale and old.

Hawke noticed the woman at the table first, lean and dark-haired and her steel-hard gaze pinned on Varric. The Seeker, she guessed, before briskly surveying the rest of them. Varric spoke first, amiable introductions that did not quite ease the uncertainty that had lodged in her gut.

Sitting poised beside the Seeker – Cassandra Pentaghast, Hawke reminded herself – was a red-haired woman, Leliana, and finally the Inquisitor himself. An unwieldy title, Hawke thought, too clumsily heavy for his young, thin frame, all pale skin and freckles and roughly cropped reddish-brown hair.

“Maxwell Trevelyan,” Varric said. “Meet Hawke.”

“Just Hawke?” the young man said mildly.

Hawke grinned. She clasped his hand briefly and answered, “Just Hawke works fine. Keeps me grounded.”

“Champion,” the Seeker said cautiously. “It is good to finally meet you.”

“Yes,” Hawke answered. “And you.”

“You are a difficult woman to track down, it seems.”

“I’m just good at hiding.”

“Clearly,” Cassandra said. “And even better at leaving no trail behind.”

“I’m talented when I want to be. Are we going to keep dancing, or should we simply just talk it through?”

The line of the Seeker’s mouth shifted into the ghost of a smile. “Yes, I believe that would save us time.”

She waited until Varric finished introducing Fenris, biting back a smile at the way they all seemed suddenly to notice him, all white hair and fierce green eyes and lean frame and the lyrium marks that sloped up his throat and onto his chin.

Hawke spun out one of the chairs, sat, and said, “Alright. I’ll tell you what I know about Corypheus. I’ll answer anything I can for you, but you’re not keeping us here. This is an exchange, not an alliance.”

“Agreed,” the Inquisitor said.

“Alright.” She hesitated, gloved hands flat on the table. “When Corypheus woke, he - it was strange.”

“Nothing about it wasn’t strange, Hawke,” Varric said.

“It was as if he didn’t see us or couldn’t see us, when he first woke. He called out to Dumat. First as if he was praying, and then as if he was, I don’t know, beseeching.”

“Begging,” Fenris muttered.

“What else did he say?”

“You know, I didn’t stop to take notes at the time.” Hawke summoned a grin. “I was running around trying to stay alive while being chased by a monster in a skirt. A very tall monster in a skirt. At least I think it was a skirt.”

The Inquisitor smiled, slowly, as if he had not quite meant to. “It was. It still is.”

“Good to see he’s being consistent, then.”

“Not entirely. Let’s just say he’s no longer quite so confused.”

“What?”

The Inquisitor frowned, his gaze sharpening. “In Haven,” he said, and stopped. “He spoke to me. He told me he had seen the throne of the gods, and that it was empty.”

Hawke swallowed. “He talked to you.”

The young man shrugged. “He picked me up like I weighed nothing and growled at me. I wouldn’t call it much of a two-way conversation.”

“He talked at us,” Hawke said hollowly. “I’d like to say he didn’t know we were there, and maybe he didn't, to begin with. But once he decided we were in his way, he gave us quite a run for it.”

“And?”

“And he said he’d stepped into the Golden City. That he’d crossed into it, somehow.”

“Varric said you came across him in a Warden prison,” Leliana said.

“That’s right.”

“And you just stumbled upon this place, did you?”

“No,” Hawke said sharply. “Short version is that the Wardens locked him up, stuffed him in a prison bound with wards. Eventually the wards started to give out. They needed help to strengthen them again, so they got my father to help.”

“Why your father?”

Hawke paused. “Haven’t you already talked this through with Varric?”

Leliana’s expression stayed implacable. “Many times. I want to hear it from you.”

“And here I thought we were meant to be helping each other.”

“Why your father?”

Beside Hawke, Fenris shifted. The smallest of movements, barely there and half-hidden but she knew he was coiling himself to move. Without looking away from Leliana, Hawke brushed one hand against the outside of his thigh, finding the muscles there locked.

“He was a mage. An apostate.” She hesitated. “He, ah – he used blood, his blood, on the wards. He died when I was very young. Which was why Corypheus sent the Carta after me. For my blood.”

“And that worked?”

“To a point. My blood opened the seals in the prison.”

Not quite meaning to, she glanced across to Fenris and discovered that he was already looking back at her, his expression carefully veiled. When she smiled slightly, some of the tension in him eased.

“And, you know,” she added, her voice pitched deliberately light. “You just know you’re in for an interesting day when the first bastard you walk into tells you he needs your blood.”

“And then you just had to go and offer a kidney instead,” Varric muttered.

Hawke laughed, surprising herself. “It shut them up for a few minutes.”

“Varric,” Cassandra said thoughtfully. “You claimed you killed this creature.”

“We did,” he said firmly. “We toppled him. He went down full of holes and bleeding. And then Hawke sliced his throat open right back to the bone, just to make sure. Oh, and we set him on fire. And then we poked him some more to see that he really wasn’t moving. No breath, no heartbeat, if he even had one to start with.”

“But how did,” Cassandra began.

Varric flung his hands up. “I don’t know. I do know that he ran us ragged. Beat the shit out of us before he went down. Look, Seeker. I used to think that the Wardens kept him there because they wanted to use him for something, I don’t know. Now I’m wondering if they kept him locked up there because he can’t be killed.”

“Wardens,” Leliana said musingly. “We have uncovered strange – disturbing, even – reports concerning the Wardens lately.”

Hawke grinned crookedly. “Well. We might even be able to help you there as well.”

***

The tavern was warm, close to stifling, and riotous with early evening conversation. Perched on a windowsill beside Fenris, Hawke closed her eyes and simply listened to the flow of voices and music. When Fenris pressed their half-finished wine bottle into her hands, she smiled. She opened one eye, kissed the tip of his nose, and lifted the bottle.

The Herald’s Rest, Varric had called it, thronged of an evening and most afternoons as well. Inquisition soldiers and healers and Maxwell Trevelyan’s friends, and she could hear the way they were clinging to the desperate hope of it, of Skyhold, of what it meant.

“Enjoying yourself, Hawke?”

She swallowed, the wine rich and dark, before glancing across to Varric. “Yes, actually. Must be something about your inestimable company buoying me up.”

“Right,” Varric said.

“That and I keep hearing people muttering around me about how they’re pretty certain that I’m the same person in that story you keep telling. You know, the one where you have me headbutting the Arishok. Which I’m pretty sure I didn’t do.”

“No, he headbutted you and sent you flying. But it sounds better the other way around.”

“You’re making me seem like an idiot.” She leaned her head against Fenris’ shoulder and felt his arm circle her waist in response, gently squeezing.

“No, no, no. I’m just reclothing your heroics. Making you seem more approachable.”

“You’re undermining me and making me seem like an idiot,” she said, grinning. “Though, if it’s working, go right ahead and tell them about that time I got chased around in circles by a wyvern.”

“Hey, I remember it being a decent party before it all went to shit.”

“That’s because you didn’t get chased in circles.”

“No, I was hiding behind a pillar because I didn’t _want_ to get chased in circles.”

“And before that, we had to rescue you,” Fenris said solemnly. “Remember?”

“Oh, you’re on his side now? That’s not fair.” Hawke grinned and purloined the bottle again.

The evening wore on, moonrise thinning the crowd. Varric gave in eventually, claiming urgent letters to pen, and left them to the dregs of the wine. When Fenris caught her hand and tugged, she grinned and trailed him out into the courtyard beyond. The sudden clawing cold made her gasp, and Fenris chuckled when she huddled against his shoulder, arranging his arm around her in the same motion.

“What’s funny?”

“You,” he said, and kissed her gently.

She responded, tasting the wine and the sharpness of the snow, catching against his lips. “Inside?”

He moved first and she launched after him, not quite beating him to the steps. Twice inside they turned themselves around, Fenris insisting that they had already walked past that library twice and Hawke airily claiming she had never once seen it before. By the time they finally rediscovered their rooms, she was laughing helplessly. When he elbowed the door shut behind them, she pushed him against the wall, her hands knotting at the nape of his neck.

Fiercely Fenris responded, one hand delving into her hair and yanking her head back. Clumsily, they made it to the edge of the bed, Fenris wrestling with her belt and the laces beneath. Her back hit the sheets first and she tugged him down over her, running her hands over the familiar contours of his body. He urged her thighs up around his waist, one of his hands sweeping one of hers above her head. Their fingers clamped around each other, his palm sliding against hers, anchoring them together. As desperately, she arched up under him, her legs locking hard around the back of his.

Afterwards, they stayed twined together, his head against her belly and her legs curled lazily around him. She ran her hands through his hair, sweat-dewed and silken.

“Hawke,” Fenris murmured, and kissed the small swell of her hip. He shifted, rolling onto his side and carrying her with him so that they were cleaved together, hip to shoulder. “What is it?”

She traced the slant of his ears. “Of all the ways I saw it ending in Kirkwall, I didn’t see it taking us this far. This is big,” she added, her lips moving against his throat, brushing his pulse. “Too big. We’re going to get lost in it all.”

“We won’t.”

“Oh, _now_ you’re overcome by foresight, are you?”

He chuckled. “No, but I know you.”

“Oh, do you?”

“Very well, in fact.” He kissed the corners of her mouth. “You are stubborn, and we will see this through, and afterwards, we will go somewhere warmer.”

Unaccountably, her throat thickened. “You’re wonderful.”

***

Hawke jolted out of roiling dreams. Heart hammering, she waited until the room swam into focus, the fireplace thick with last night’s embers. Through the windows, she could see the earliest touch of the sun, pale and wan. She eased her arm out from under Fenris’ warm, welcoming sprawl. Suppressing a sudden prickle of guilt, she kissed the top of his head and slipped out of bed.

After hauling her clothes on, she made her way into the corridor, fumbling with her gloves until she had them straightened. She discovered the main courtyard crisp and chill, the bowl of the sky cloudlessly blue. This early, the courtyard was almost deserted, two stableboys dragging themselves across to the steps. Meandering, Hawke took herself past the tavern, almost succumbed to the treacherously tempting scent of baking bread, and crossed to the roughly-framed sparring square.

At the armoury she loitered at the door, shrugged to herself, and ducked inside. Heat assailed her first, and then the awareness that Cullen was leaning over the table, parchment unfurled under one hand. When he looked up, she wondered if she looked as ridiculously surprised as he did.

“Knight-Captain,” she said warily.

“Commander,” he said, his tone lighter than she had expected.

“Sorry. Knight-Commander.”

“No, just Commander.”

Hawke paused, her head tilted to one side. “You’re – not with the Templars anymore?”

“No,” he said.

“Explains what you’re doing here, then, I guess.”

“And what are you doing here, Champion?”

She groaned. “Why does everyone still insist on calling me that? It’s not even as if I’ve been in Kirkwall recently.”

Cullen smiled. “You certainly left your mark on it, though.”

“No, that was all due to the terrifying walking statues that your Knight-Commander had marching around for her.” She winced. “Maker. That was uncalled-for.”

He straightened up, the parchment springing back into an unhelpful coil. “Not really, in light of how it ended.”

She remembered, vivid and jarring. The way the air had buckled around the terrible red sword, crackling, the thrum of it drumming through her down to the very marrow. How Meredith had changed, or revealed what she had become, her eyes flaring as bright at the blade. How the bitch had cornered Fenris, the edge of the sword too damn close to his throat. How his markings had flared, livid and fierce, his whole frame seeming to shiver and blur until he knocked the blade aside.

“Varric did mention you were here,” she admitted, shaking herself out of her thoughts. “But there’s been so much going on lately that mainly I’ve been fixated on _hey, Corypheus is back, and he brought friends_.”

Cullen smiled lopsidedly. He looked tired, she noticed, shadows in bruised rings beneath his eyes.

Not quite sure what she should say – what she could say – she shrugged instead and turned her attention on the gleaming lines of shields. Kirkwall and Meredith lay so many months in the past, but even so, she wondered just how many times she had asked to speak to the Knight-Captain, to hand over some small scrap of information, or to answer a summons, anything that she thought – _hoped_ – might have kept the city from splitting apart for a little longer.

She shook herself and said, “You were in Haven during the attack, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Apart from the obvious, what were your thoughts? On Corypheus, I mean?”

Cullen frowned. “What’s the obvious?”

Wryly, she said, “ _Just what_ is _that,_ followed by _we’re all about to die, aren’t we._ ”

“That was right at the top of my report.” His words came out deadpan, and Hawke found herself smiling. “It happened too fast,” Cullen added thoughtfully. “However many he lost at Haven, he gains more. However he is gaining support, he is doing it well, and he is doing it quickly.”

“Persuasion, promises of riches, general incitement of terror?” She ambled past the shields and across to the forge, the air there full of the tang of metal. “Cullen?”

“Yes?”

“Do you really think this can work? This Inquisition of yours?”

“I’m hoping so. We’ve survived so far.”

“I’ll give you that.” She studied a row of swords, the edges shining. “Beautiful work.”

The silence stretched until he said, “Hawke, I’m not sure if you know –“

“Lots of things I don’t know. Starting with how to sew buttons back on properly.”

“At Kirkwall,” Cullen said, his tone roughening. “After you left. Your friend, the mage. Anders. I’m not sure if you know. We found –“

She paused. “I know he’s dead.”

Still – so many days and so many leagues after – still the thought of it constricted her throat. How foolish she had been, how blind, how blind they had all been. How she had spent weeks, months, seeing and feeling the city crackling around them, seeing it tighten and tighten, inexorable. How she had known it was coming, it, something that would take them all over the edge and she had been stupid enough not to see it until it was already happening.

“I killed him,” she said, and heard her own voice ring hollow.

“You killed him,” Cullen said, incredulous. “I’m sorry – I didn’t know.”

“No one else was meant to. At the time anyway.”

The other details – the ones that still had teeth, and were dug into her memories – she could not voice, not now, not here, so long after. How she had done it cleanly – cleanly as she could, her hand shaking and slipping until she steadied herself. How he had looked through her, past her, only turning when she had the blade against the fluttering pulse in his throat.

She turned, unclenching her fingers, stiff still with tension. “Long time ago. Or it seems that way,” she added, the words flung up and halfway true.

That day, she thought. The day she had woken bleary-eyed, changed her mind, and stolen the blankets back from Fenris instead of getting up. The day she had finally sifted through her letters, vaguely aware of Bodahn gently teasing Orana. The day she had gotten to the last one, sighed resignedly, and trudged into the library to tell Fenris they were off to the Chantry, _again,_ because apparently the Champion was needed to oversee another slanging match.

“Thank you for coming here,” Cullen said, startling her out of her thoughts.

Hawke smiled. “That would be about the first time I’ve heard you say that and sound like you mean it.”

Cullen hesitated, one hand reaching for the parchment again. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, just that often there was a certain sense of _oh, Maker help me, it’s her and her friends again_.”

“No, I rarely – I mean I didn’t know quite how to,” he said, and sighed, giving up. “You’re mocking me.”

“Well. A little.”

***

That night she dreamed of the dead. She woke to snow lashing the casement and the fluttering light of the fire and Fenris, one of his arms curled around her waist. Very gently, he eased closer so that his shoulder braced hers, wordless for long moments.

She laughed, the sound of it uneven and catching in her throat. “You know me very well, don’t you?”

“By now I’ve had a lot of practice,” he said, gently teasing. His lips brushed her cheek. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He meant the dreams, and how they too often dragged her out of sleep, sweat on her lips and her heartbeat galloping. The Gallows and afterwards, when they had fled, jarringly aware of the blazing red spikes that had jutted through Meredith – or whatever it was that was left of Meredith – and the air shimmering, bleeding at the edges, coiling.

“No. More of the same.” She stared at the casement, the panes indistinct, blurred white. “Big place, don’t you think?”

She wanted to speak of anything else, anything, and mercifully he understood.

“Strange that it remained unknown for so long,” he said.

“Maybe no one wanted to drag themselves this high up into the mountains.”

Fenris smiled. “I wouldn’t blame them.”

Teasingly, Hawke said, “Have you met this Tevinter mage Varric says they’re helping?”

“Harbouring,” Fenris retorted, but his voice stayed even. “No, I have not, and nor do I intend to, unless I am given no other choice.”

“You’re so predictable.”

“Am I,” he muttered.

“Remind me that this is a good idea.”

“Hawke, we once thought taking ourselves down to the coast at dawn to track slavers after spending the entire night in the Hanged Man was a good idea.”

She grinned. “That was a good idea. It was just badly executed.”

“If that’s what you call you throwing up all over the sand, then, yes.”

She prodded his ribs and felt him shiver. “Oh, as if you were in any better shape. And anyway, we got them in the end.”

The wind sighed, flattening wide white flakes against the casement. Hawke curled on her side, close enough to him that she could see the faded scars on his shoulder and his chest, and the new, smaller one that sliced too close to the lyrium marks on his throat.

“What?” she asked, when he crooked a dark eyebrow at her. “It’s still a good view.”

“Still,” he echoed resignedly. “I’m bowled over by your charm.”

“You should be.” She traced her way down his chest and back up, tracing between the lyrium marks before her palm lingered over the steady thump of his heartbeat. “You know,” Hawke said, glancing back up to his face. “You didn’t have to come all this way.”

“No, of course not. In fact I would have been entirely content to while away the days waiting for you,” he said drily.

“No, I – well, that’s not quite what I meant. I worried – I still worry – that I’ve dragged you along.”

“I don’t recall a knife to the throat, a fight, or even a threat or two.”

Helplessly she laughed. “Neither do I.”

He blinked at her. “You thought I would have wanted, what? To stay in Kirkwall?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“It was your home, Hawke. Not mine.” Fenris winced. “I’m sorry. That was unfair, and not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.”

Silently, he covered the back of her hand with his. His expression shifted in that slightly uncertain way that she knew meant he was wrestling with his own thoughts, running whatever he wanted to say through his head first.

“Besides,” he said, his gaze locking on hers. “We agreed. Whatever is to be done, we do it together. Wherever it takes us.”

She felt his heartbeat lurch under her hand. “Yes,” Hawke said fiercely. “Wherever.”

***

Mid-morning found Hawke ambling across the wide courtyard behind the dizzyingly high towers, her feet kicking deliberately slowly through the snow. Fenris matched her steps, swathed in his cape. Small splotches coloured his cheekbones, his breath clouding.

“How far?” Fenris asked.

“To Crestwood? A fair way. It won’t be a fast ride there and back. And that’s if it all works.” She hesitated. “It had _better_ work.”

Fenris smiled, the fleeting motion of it softening the angles of his face. “We’ll find some way to make it work.”

“Of course,” she said, and nudged him. “Plans as tenuous as talking to Wardens and barely keeping in contact through coded letters are always set up to succeed.”

“And you say _I’m_ the one who always assumes the worst,” he muttered.

She pouted at him before kneeling, hands cupping the snow. After she had it pressed into a suitably large oval, she straightened up, gauged the distance, and flung it at him.

The snowball shattered against his shoulder, white fragments catching in the ends of his hair. Fenris stared at the snow-laden mess of his cape and frowned. “Really, Hawke?”

“It’s fun,” she told him firmly.

His eyes narrowed a fraction and then he was moving, scooping up a handful of snow that far too quickly ended up down the back of her neck. Hawke shrieked, shoved him away, and lunged to grab another handful. That one he ducked, and the next one he flung at her hit her square in the forehead. Hawke spat out snow, winced at the bite of the cold, and managed a glare at him.

“You, ser, play nasty,” she said teasingly.

His eyes gleamed wickedly. “Oh? You didn’t tell me we were _playing_.”

“I know that look. Don’t give me that look. And,” she added, already halfway to laughing. “Don’t you dare start suddenly looking innocent.”

He closed the distance between them, fast enough that she was half-crouched, hands scrabbling in the snow, when he pushed her onto her back. Hawke retaliated, dragging him down on top of her, the cold tip of his nose bumping hers.

When she kissed him clumsily she discovered that the inside of his mouth was hot. His hair prickled her eyelids, white and glossy. His hands slipped into her hair, cradling the back of her head. Closing her eyes, she let herself think of nothing but his weight over her, and the tender familiarity of him as he plied her lips apart with his tongue.

She opened her eyes to the icy sensation of his gloved hand against her neck. Taking advantage of his proximity, she kissed his chin before wriggling out from under him. After she dragged him to his feet, she dusted the snow off his cape. Wordlessly, they picked their way back past the stables, Hawke pausing more than once to flick clumped snow out of the back of her collar.

Varric met them at the steps, the mabari trotting along beside him. He stopped, surveyed them both and how rumpled they must have looked, and said, “I don’t want to know, alright?”

“Snowball fight.”

“Sure it was, Hawke. And your dog won’t leave me alone.”

“She’s missed you.”

Varric grunted. “Of course she has.”

Inside, one of the smaller dining rooms was warm, the air rich with the scent of fresh bread and the delightfully sweet tang of the preserve jar Varric wrestled open. Hawke found a bottle of wine and three glasses and ensconced herself beside Fenris, her knee brushing his.

“You ready to head out tomorrow?” Varric asked.

“Of course,” she said. “Anything else you need me to do?”

He shook his head. “Not really. Trevelyan’s actually excited.”

Hawke laughed. “Excited or crazy?”

“The latter, I’m sure,” Varric muttered.

“Do you trust him?”

“Yes. I do. I’ve got an ear for people. You should know that by now.”

“But?”

“But he’s not reckless except when he needs to be.” Varric shrugged. “He’s tougher than he looks and he’s holding this place together.”

“He’s a child.”

“Hey, you want me to make the obvious joke about you washing up in Kirkwall all those years ago?”

“That was different.”

“Yes,” Varric said, his expression softening. “It was.”

She stared at the wineglass, half-full and shimmering. “That was a long time ago, wasn’t it?”

“Feels that way.”

“And then I just had to go and poke Corypheus,” she muttered.

“Well,” Varric said heavily. “I chased the Carta information. I worked out where they were. If I’d let it go, it would be different now.”

“No. My father, his blood. My blood.”

“Are you both done?” Fenris asked sharply.

Varric laughed. “I’m sorry, what? Advice on not handing out guilt from the elf who clings to every slight, real or imagined?”

Fenris’ eyes narrowed. “And what good _does_ this do, Varric? We were there when he awoke. We were there when he fell. And we will be there when he falls again.”

“Good to see you haven’t lost your stubborn streak,” Varric muttered.

***

Three weeks later, Hawke reckoned she could still smell the thick dank stink of Crestwood, clinging to her leathers and her hair and lodged under her fingernails. Two days out of the village and finally under clear skies, she tipped her head back, the press of the wind ruffling her hair.

“Champion,” Cassandra said, from somewhere behind her.

She spluttered and turned. “Yes?”

“I wanted to thank you,” the Seeker said.

“All of you seem to be doing that. Makes me wonder what you’ll ask for next.”

Cassandra paused. “This is not what I hoped would happen.”

“No, I don’t think anyone predicted that part where the sky cracked apart.” Hawke grinned, deliberately vicious. “I know what you mean.”

“None of us knew quite what to expect at Kirkwall.”

Hawke laughed, slightly breathless. “Lots of us in Kirkwall didn’t expect _any_ of it.”

Cassandra sat, settling her lean frame on the flat of a boulder. “I thought it would be simple to pick apart. To understand.” She smiled briefly. “That sounds rather foolish now.”

“No,” Hawke said, softer. “It doesn’t.”

After wrestling with her own thoughts, she sat beside the Seeker, her gaze on the rippling grass.

“This Warden friend –“

“Not so much a friend. I had dealings – well, I ran into the Grey Wardens in Kirkwall. And later, after everything really went bad, a mix of luck, obstinacy and a lot of Varric’s help with persuasive letters got me into contact with them again. Well, one of them.”

“The mage was also a Warden,” Cassandra said.

“Yes. But he’d stopped being a Warden, in a way, before I ever met him. No ties, no contacts.”

“Yes.”

“Can I ask you something?”

Cassandra hesitated, her eyebrows knotting. “Go ahead.”

“You know Varric was protecting us, right? Protecting me and protecting Fenris?”

“Yes,” the Seeker said stiffly. “I do.”

Hawke shoved a hand under the loose spill of her hair, digging tired fingers into the muscles at the back of her neck. “Good.”

“And next?”

Flatly Hawke said, “We’ll go to the desert with you. After that, I’m promising nothing.”

“And?”

“And that’s it.”

Cassandra smiled, slowly, as if she had not quite meant to. “That is understandable.”

“What is it?”

“It’s strange,” Cassandra said, the smile staying. “I have heard so much about you. About you both, and here you are.”

“Disappointed or impressed?” Hawke asked genially.

“I could say neither.”

“And that would just be deliberately evasive.”

“I suppose it would.” Cassandra laughed, the sound of it short and clipped. “I made the mistake of assuming I would know you when I met you.”

“Well, Varric may have mentioned you a few times or so in his letters, so I may have made the same mistake.”

“May I ask you something?”

“Go ahead,” Hawke said, and saw the Seeker tip her head in wry response.

“Why did you stay, that day in Kirkwall?”

“That last day?” She hesitated. “You mean, why didn’t we – why didn’t I – take the easy way out? Well, the fast way out.”

“Yes.”

“I couldn’t,” she said. “I thought about it. I wanted to. And yes, I wonder what might have been different if I had left.”

“But?”

“But I don’t know if anything would be different.” She summoned up a small smile. “Besides, we would’ve kicked Corypheus awake regardless. Least this way I’m here to tell you that you’re all right, and that I completely agree that he’s utterly terrifying.”

Cassandra snorted. “Very funny.”

***

The library was quiet, the edges of the books and the glossy dark shelves limned by lanternlight. Hawke sat with her shoulders against the mabari’s indolent sprawl, a book open across her knees and her gaze not quite seeing the words. She blinked, tried again, and realised she had barely read the last three pages. She straightened up, the mabari grumbling gently at her.

“Is it too late to go outside and find something to hit?”

Fenris shifted, his eyes meeting hers over the edge of the book he had been leafing through. “No, but it is likely too cold.”

“Spoilsport.”

Lightly he retorted, “I’m not stopping you.”

She reached behind, her fingers finding the thick scruff of fur at the mabari’s neck. “I’ll think of something else, I’m sure.”

“Talk to me,” Fenris said.

She hesitated, her fingers still circling under the mabari’s chin. “All the questions. And yes, I know we knew there’d be questions, and lots of them. It feels foolish.”

“No.”

“It’s,” she said, and shrugged. “How it’s all just words to them. I was sitting with Lord Trevelyan today.”

Very softly, Fenris said, “Go on.”

She did, the words spilling out awkwardly but he listened, his head tilted towards her. The questions, and how she had reined back the anger, how she had had to explain that no, there was no one else, not now, and not then, when the Carta baited her out of Kirkwall and into the dusty, knife-edged hills that had hidden the prison. No one else with the blood – the damnably right blood, her father’s blood – to crack the seals open.

She remembered – vivid and vicious as the bite of a sword – standing over the first seal, one hand full of the strange blade they had found and the other full of her own blood.

 _“I don’t know what to do.”_ She had whispered the words, aware of Fenris behind her, his arm steadying her.

_“Your choice. I am with you. I am always with you, but it is your choice.”_

The silence rushed back before she realised he had moved, sitting beside her, hands cupped over his knees.

“Where are you?”

“Stuck,” she said. “It keeps going round in my thoughts. How it could have been different.”

“If we had walked away? If we had never gone there?”

“I suppose.”

Sharper, Fenris said, “What do you want me to say, Hawke? That if your father had not been a mage, this would never have happened? That it would have been better had he not been a mage?”

Her temper flared and she snarled, “Yes, if that’s what you want to say.”

Fenris’ shoulders stiffened. “Would it change anything?”

“No. I’ve heard it from you before too many damn times and I know what you think.” The words were bitten-off and bitter, flung between them.

“And?” His tone was as challengingly fierce. “And then, what? You want me to tell you that it was mages who caused the Circles to fall? That it was – in Kirkwall, it was – we were there. We saw it.”

“Why not,” she said. “Let’s go over the same argument again. Did you want to see if you can win this time, or should I?”

His whole frame tightened, coiling, and she thought he was gathering himself to get up. The tension softened in his face first, the tightness around his eyes easing. He reached for her hesitantly, one hand ghosting along the back of hers.

“Thinking on it,” he said, his eyes flickering. “I can wait a few days.”

Surprising herself, Hawke laughed. “Me too. Fenris?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Almost haltingly, he curled one arm around her, drawing her against him. Eyes closed, she leaned into him, her face pressed against his chest. Beneath the layers of his tunic and his shirt, she could feel the solid thud of his heartbeat.

“Fenris?”

His hand cupped the back of her neck, sheltering. “I’m here,” he said, and she ached.

***

The night closed over Skyhold, bringing billowing wind and later snow, tumbling raggedly against the casement. Hawke sat across the windowseat, her back to the stone and a nearly-empty bottle of wine between her knees, a glass ignored on the floor below. The last of the fire was fading beneath the mantelpiece, and she idly contemplated heaving another bundle of wood on.

Fenris was buried in the sheets, his breathing even and his head under one of the pillows. But he slept lightly – he always had – and she had felt him shift slightly when she had abandoned her attempt at sleeping and clambered onto the windowseat instead.  
She thought of the desert, and what they might find there. The Wardens and their secrets amid the sand and she wondered when she had started letting herself think of it, of how far this – Corypheus, Kirkwall, everything – was dragging them. She thought of that last day, after she had stumbled bleeding and exhausted out of the Gallows, Fenris’ arm under hers and both of them propping each other up, swaying. How Varric had shoved an armful of supplies at them, wrung through and with one eyebrow crusted with blood. How the words had come too fast, stumbling off her tongue, how she had promised to write, as soon as she could, as soon as they could.

As soon as they were away and clear and abruptly she wondered how she had been so damnably foolish, to think that they might have evaded the echoes of Kirkwall and Corypheus.

She heard the blankets rustle. She hid her smile when Fenris padded across to the windowseat, shirtless and barefoot. After he swung himself up opposite her, legs crossed, he reached for the wine bottle.

“Boring dreams?” she asked impishly.

“Not the most inventive I’ve ever had,” he replied solemnly.

“I’m sure I can give you some half-decent incentive.”

“I might have to hold you to that.”

She lifted the bottle, the wine thick and heady. “You know what ridiculous thing I can’t get out my head?”

“That song. The one that Isabela taught you.”

“And that I insisting on teaching Varric,” she said, and groaned. “You would remember that.”

“How could I forget? There was that pair of lines about –“

Hawke laughed and shoved the bottle back into his hands. “Yes, alright.”

Fenris smiled, the motion of it fleeting. “What ridiculous thing can’t you get out of your head?”

“First, that the desert this fortress is in is a long, long way away. And second, that I’m not sure if I want Corypheus to realise what we’re doing or not.”

His expression softened. “To your first point, we’ll manage. To your second, I agree.”

“It would be easier.”

“To fight it out? Yes, eventually. When we know more. When we know how to topple him, and keep him down.”

She swallowed. “Yes.”

He laid the bottle down, the glass chiming against the floor. Wordlessly, Fenris cupped her chin between both hands. She could feel the lines of lyrium that striped the inside of his hands, wrist to fingertip, rough and slightly raised. As slowly, he traced the

bones of her face as if he was branding her into his thoughts.

“Fenris,” she said, shaping his name almost silently. “What is it?”

“I was wondering what you wanted to do. Afterwards,” he added, and reached for her, his hands finding her hips.

Hawke laughed, edging closer so that they were wrapped around each other, her feet meeting behind his back and his legs braced under her.

“Afterwards,” she said, close enough that she could feel his breath against her lips. “Planning ahead already?”

“We have to have something to argue about.”

“Discuss. Suggest. Gently disagree.”

Fenris laughed, low and soft. “Of course.”

She curved her head against his shoulder, marvelling at the familiarity of him in her arms. “Somewhere warm. And somewhere with you.”

“Well,” he said, his lips moving against her hair. “I’m forced to admit that I think that sounds like a fairly good idea.”

“I thought you might.”


End file.
